


The Way It's Always Been

by druscilla



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5178089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/druscilla/pseuds/druscilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I didn't know I was lonely 'til I saw your face.<br/>I didn't know I was broken 'til I wanted to change.</i>
</p><p>Somewhere there's a slightly broken Pete.  Somewhere there's a Patrick running around frantically with a bottle of glue.  And in the middle of that, there's them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way It's Always Been

Pete liked walks. He always had, for as long as Patrick had known him. Late night walks were best, darkness for cover and relatively safe on the suburban streets. Not that it would stop Pete from a late night walk in Detroit three years later where he would get shot at and laugh when he told Patrick about it, tears on his cheeks.

But for now it was safe and Pete would give Patrick this look at the house when he was about to disappear (since the younger boy worried and didn’t have a cell phone). Sometimes Patrick would grab a jacket and slip out the door after him.

Pete didn’t seem to mind. Patrick could appreciate silence and he never commented when Pete did something weird like pick the leaves off a tree or stare at street signs or sit on swings by the old elementary school. Sometimes when they were at the abandoned playground, Patrick would squint at an invisible distraction in the distance and say something ambiguous like, “it’ll be okay”. And Pete would scoff but he would feel a little better and sometimes he would try to hold Patrick’s hand on the way back and the younger boy would let him.

Sometimes the walks weren’t enough and Patrick would come downstairs to find Pete pacing in the living room and peeling the polish off his fingernails so he could bite them. Then he would take Pete by the hand and lead him upstairs and tuck him in and sing ‘What a Wonderful World’ until he closed his eyes. Patrick was never sure if he was faking it or really asleep. It was one of the only times Pete could act.  
Pete told Patrick he was sick one night when the younger found him drinking in the empty bathtub and writing swear words on his leg in the Sharpie he used to sign tee shirts.

“Like the flu?”

Pete snorted. “Like the crazy.”

Patrick crawled into the bathtub next to him and gently took the bottle away. “You need to be nicer to yourself.” He lightly squeezed Pete’s knee and glanced at the graffiti on his leg. “Are you the ‘bloodsucking whore’ or is that someone else?”

“I’m tired, Patrick,” he whispered suddenly, tears leaking out of his eyes as he turned his head. Kind blue eyes met his and that soft smile on those soft lips made Pete feel a little more okay. Patrick’s hands were soft as they helped him up, like they always were, even with the callouses on the fingertips.

“You need to drink some water before you go to sleep, okay?” the younger told him as he lead Pete to the bed.

“You’re so smart,” Pete slurred, half drunk and half tired. “Why are you so smart? Did I do that?” He looked sad.

Patrick shook his head, not in answer but to clear it of the cloudy inappropriate thoughts , and lightly pushed Pete onto the mattress and went to get a glass of water from the bathroom. He set his jaw and squared his shoulders, made Pete drink the cool liquid, and tucked him in.

Then he went into the bathroom and drank some of the leftover vodka and cried. The next day Pete was fine and Patrick had a headache. He slept with his head in Pete’s lap the entire ride to the next show. He didn’t feel the fingers stroking his hair and the back of his neck and the dips of his shoulders.

After the show, Pete disappeared into the back of a sedan with a blonde and Patrick drank too many shots and ended up puking behind the club. He felt hands on his shoulders and heard Pete’s voice. He was sick again but at least he could blame the tears on that. Pete smelled like sex and cheap perfume. His eyes were dead behind the concern they were managing for Patrick.

Pete took his leg of the drive and slept through sound check. Joe yelled at them both to get their shit together or just 'do it already’. Neither one of them drank or disappeared into a backseat that night. They also didn’t say a word to each other.

The next night they had two hotel rooms again and Pete put on his hoodie instead of opening a bottle. “I’m going for a walk.”

“You don’t know where we are.” Patrick protested.

The older boy shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

“You shouldn’t–”

“Thanks for the advice, _Dad!“_ Pete yelled, slamming the door behind him. Patrick scrambled into his shoes and rushed down the stairs, hoping to beat him to the lobby. He caught him just outside the doors.  
“Don’t run away from me,” he hissed so the few other people outside wouldn’t hear, shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets as he hurried after Pete.

“Why?” he spat back nastily, not caring about any looks he was tracking as he stomped down the sidewalk.

The younger boy had to hurry to match his pace and grabbed his sleeve to try and slow him down. “Because. I’m always going to come after you. You know that, right?”

Pete stopped and Patrick almost walked into him, but managed not to. “Always?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, more than aware at least two sets of eyes were watching them.

Pete turned back to the hotel without another word. Patrick followed him, just as silent. Pete hadn’t remembered his key so Patrick had to unlock the side door and their room. Then two hands grabbed his shoulders and threw him against the wall and Patrick’s shout turned into a moan as lips found his and a knee pressed between his legs.

His arms came up around Pete’s neck on some instinct he didn’t know he had and his hips pressed forward as the warmth spread through his body. Pete kissed him hard and deep and fast, over and over, giving Patrick just enough time to gasp for breath before swallowing him up again.

And then, just as suddenly, the kisses stopped and Pete’s head fell forward against Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I love you. I’m the worst person to have in love with you.”

“You’ve got to be nicer to yourself,” Patrick murmured, kissing the back of his head. “I love you, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Pete said again.

“I’m not.”

This time when they kissed it was soft and tentative and scared. Pete let Patrick lead him back to the bed and tuck him in and they held each other until they fell asleep, soft kisses the only sound between the walls.

The next day Pete kept his hand on Patrick’s knee for the drive and Patrick smiled at him a second too long while he was announcing the encore, but other than that, it was them as they always had been. Because really, not much had changed.


End file.
